He shifted uneasily in his chair, and bent forward and laid fresh coals upon the fire. Then he leaned back again and thought. The office clock struck eleven, and the loud clangor struck upon Mr. Atkins in his nervous mood with singular unpleasantness. Before the echo of the last stroke had died out, footsteps were heard in the street, unsteady and wavering, as if the pedestrian were battling with the storm, and found it difficult to advance against it. “Some poor fellow,” thought Mr. Atkins. “He must be homeless, to be out at this hour and in such a gale.” The steps came nearer still and nearer, their sound being now and then lost in the tumult of the winds. They paused at the foot of the solicitor’s office steps, and then slowly mounted to the door. “Who can it be at this time of night?” muttered Mr. Atkins. “Some vagabond who means to sleep on my steps? Or is it some houseless wanderer who sees my light through the shutters, and is come to beg of me?” It almost seemed as if it were the latter, for the office lights did gleam out into the black streets, and lighted up a patch of pavement. A knock, low and unsteady, was rung upon the knocker. Mr. Atkins hesitated. He was not a timid man, but he had no client who found it necessary to visit him at that hour, and his visitor, he thought, was as likely to be some desperate vagrant or professional thief as an honest man. The knock, low and faint and imploring, sounded again. It seemed to the solicitor as if there was something especially guarded and secret in the manner of it. He arose and took from his office desk a loaded pistol, and placed it in his breast pocket. Then he went to the door and undid the bars and bolts, throwing it half way open, and peering out. A man stood upon the steps, muffled in a thick long overcoat, whose fur collar was turned up above his ears. A slouched hat was drawn over his face, and Mr. Atkins could not distinguish a feature of his face. “Who is it?” asked the solicitor, his hand feeling for his pistol. “An old friend,” was the reply, in a hoarse whisper. “I must see you. Let me in, Atkins.” He stepped forward, with an air of command that impressed Atkins, who involuntarily stepped aside, giving the stranger admittance. The new-comer quietly turned the key in the lock. Atkins clutched his pistol, quietly upon his guard. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you want?” The stranger took off his hat, revealing the upper portion of a noble head, crowned with grizzled hair. Then slowly he turned down his greatcoat collar, and stood before Atkins without disguise, displaying a grandly noble face, with keen blue eyes, a pale bronzed countenance, and sternly set lips above a gray military beard. Atkins’ hand dropped to his side. With a wild and stifled shriek, he staggered to a chair, his eyes glaring wildly at the stranger. “My God!” he cried, with white lips. “Sir Harold Wynde!”